


Accurst Be He That First Invented War

by within_a_dream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Multi, Prank Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/pseuds/within_a_dream
Summary: An accident that befalls Bossuet sparks a chain of revenge in the form of pranks, turning Bossuet's lovers against him and leading to wholesale destruction of property--just his luck.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [absternr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/absternr/gifts).



Bossuet should have known that the fates wouldn’t let his win at cards go unpunished. At first, he’d thought the contents of his spoils was punishment enough—the one time he took something more away from the table than empty pockets, and instead of money to pay his rent it was a sack of flour. (How the man he’d played against had come into possession of a spare sack of flour and decided it was best used as a wager, Bossuet couldn’t say.) He slipped into the apartment long after the rest of its occupants had fallen asleep, placed the flour on a shelf, and flopped into bed, not bothering to check who was already there.

But of course, the win couldn’t be allowed to stand. When Bossuet ventured out of bed the next morning, he saw Joly reaching up to a shelf—oblivious to Bossuet’s winnings, precariously perched on its edge. He called out a warning just as the sack toppled to the floor, coating Joly in a ghostly white from head to toe.

Bossuet had been about to apologize (truly, he had) when Grantaire interrupted. He _certainly_ hadn’t been laughing at the misfortune that had befallen his dearest friend, as certain parties would later claim. If Bossuet had recovered from the shock quickly enough to speak first, the mess to follow could have been avoided. Instead, Grantaire seized the opportunity to wreak havoc (although he may have hesitated had he realized how far this joke would go).

“Did you see that?” he asked Joly, rising a bit from his slouch across their armchair. “Your L’Aigle has conspired to bathe you in flour. You see him laughing?”

“It was an accident!” Bossuet smiled, hoping to convince Joly of his sincerity but only managing to deepen his suspicious squint. “This would be a rather elaborate setup for a prank, wouldn’t it? Buying a bag of flour, positioning it just so in the sitting room, hoping that you walked by at just the right moment—”

Grantaire’s scoff cut him off cold. He didn’t deign to look at Bossuet, focusing instead on Joly. “And why else would he have the flour?”

It didn’t seem worth it to explain last night’s game of cards, which was seeming more surreal by the minute. No, it would be better to leave this alone for a bit, until Joly had seen sense and Grantaire had tired of playing the instigator.

When Musichetta arrived at the door several hours (and countless dirty glances and conspiratorial whispers) later, Bossuet was ready to declare war. Grantaire and Joly were occupied by God only knew what, huddled together in a corner of the apartment whispering battle plans to each other, so Bossuet was able to corner her as she let herself inside.

“You must help me defend my honor!” he whispered, hoping to avoid drawing the attention of the others.

Musichetta’s eyes widened at the sight of Joly still dusted in flour, and the remainder piled on the floor. “Who are we defending it from, and what on earth did you do?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything.” Bossuet explained the situation in low tones, eyeing Joly and Grantaire cautiously. “And I’m certain they’re planning revenge.”

“They’ve had a single morning to prepare, and they haven’t left the apartment? They can’t do anything too disastrous, then.” Musichetta kissed Bossuet’s temple. “Let’s see if we can’t negotiate a truce.”

It had almost seemed possible, when Musichetta said it. At the very least, if anyone was cunning enough to hamstring Grantaire’s attempts at a feud, it was her. Bossuet should have known it wouldn’t have ended that easily.

As soon as Musichetta stepped into the next room, she gasped and staggered back. “Bastards!” she hissed, wiping water from her now-limp hair. “I take back everything I said about peace, Bossuet.”

“I’m so sorry!” Joly stammered. He set the water jug in his hand aside, looking stricken at having drenched Musichetta.

Grantaire scoffed. “She’s a traitor. If she would side with Bossuet against you, she deserves the dousing.”

Musichetta took Bossuet by the arm and pulled him towards the door.

“Where are we going?” He would have preferred to put on his jacket before leaving, at the very least, but she seemed to have a goal, and woe betide any man who would stand between Musichetta and her goal.

She replied, clearly expecting the answer to be obvious, “To plan our revenge.”

 

They went first to her rooms, as it wouldn’t do to wander about town in a dripping-wet dress. Choosing the proper attire for vengeance was, of course, vital, and as such Bossuet and Musichetta spent the morning and a good deal of the afternoon buried in her wardrobe (it didn’t help that Bossuet was often distracted by the sight of Musichetta in her petticoats).

“We shall have to strike at Grantaire first,” Musichetta said as Bossuet tightened the ties of her dress. “Joly might be easier to sway to our side, but even if we convinced him to call a truce, Grantaire would never let it rest.”

Bossuet concurred. “We’ll need to act quickly, but with force. Something to convince him we’re not to be trifled with.”

She grinned. “We’ll attack the thing he cares about most.”

“…Us? Joly?”

Musichetta shoved him. “The _thing_ he loves most.”

Bossuet smiled as well as he realized the ingenuity of her plan. “Tomorrow morning?”

 

They made their way back into the shared apartment under the guise of a truce, Bossuet groveling for forgiveness while Musichetta snuck into the cupboards. Grantaire never suspected a thing.

It took an hour or so of waiting before Grantaire went for his wine-flask, but the expression on his face as he took a swig of vinegar was worth every minute.

“Clever bastards, aren’t you?” He chased Bossuet across the sitting room, tackling him onto the sofa. “I should have known your apology was a lie.”

“It wasn’t even my idea!” Bossuet squealed as Grantaire began to tickle his sides. He shot an apologetic glance at Musichetta.

“Ah, but you were complicit in the plot, which makes you just as guilty.”

Bossuet wrestled his way free, although not without Musichetta’s aid, and they staged a strategic retreat.

 

That afternoon, Bossuet visited a friend. Prouvaire thought his war with Joly and Grantaire was a marvelous lark, and was happy to lend Bossuet and Musichetta some ammunition.

Joly really should have known better than to leave the apartment unattended. It took Bossuet and Musichetta four or five trips to their rented carriage to remove his entire wardrobe, making Bossuet very glad that Grantaire had taken Joly out with him that night—it would have been impossible to carry out their plan with the two men sleeping in the bedroom as they’d initially planned. Musichetta arranged the clothes they’d borrowed from Jehan artfully in the wardrobe, making sure the most garish color combinations were paired together. They couldn’t risk staying to see Joly’s reaction, but the thought of his face when he opened the wardrobe the next morning was reward enough.

It wasn’t until they’d arrived back at Musichetta’s rooms that Bossuet realized he should have taken some of his own clothing with him. With the war in full swing, he had no idea when he would be back, and it was far from prudent to leave his belongings in the hands of the enemy.

 

He returned alone to the apartment the next day, bearing a few of Joly’s clothes as a peace offering. Joly answered the door wearing a set of Grantaire’s trousers and the least offensive of Prouvaire’s shirts, sleeves hiked up to his elbows.

“Have you come to gloat?”

“Actually, I have a bargain for you.” Bossuet held out the clothes. “Give me a few minutes to gather my belongings, and these are yours.”

Joly grinned. “I take the clothes first, and you have a deal.”

A few negotiations later, and Bossuet had relinquished the trousers, keeping the shirts and jackets as collateral. When he arrived at his own wardrobe, however, the door was flung open, and a strange sound echoed from inside.

Shuffling through his clothing, Bossuet’s hand met fur. When he parted the jackets, he saw a goat, busy chewing on a pair of his trousers.

“Whose idea was the goat?” He nearly ran into Grantaire on his way to the sitting room, brandishing a pair of his chewed-through trousers. “Where did you even find it?”

“ _Her_ name is Athena.” Grantaire smirked. “A friend was looking to sell a few kids, and I couldn’t say no to such a charming face.”

Athena bleated from the bedroom, apparently taking a break from destroying all of Bossuet’s belongings.

“Tell Joly that the bargain is off.”

 

Of course, Bossuet had to avenge his wardrobe. Musichetta had already procured a tub of molasses, and it was easy enough to make his way onto the balcony. Then it was only a matter of waiting for Grantaire and Joly to leave for that night’s meeting of the ABC.

Grantaire’s shout as the molasses hit him almost made up for the holes in Bossuet’s knees. Even better was his wild glances around the street, never thinking to look up.

Joly, not Grantaire, noticed Bossuet first. “Get down here!”

“I’d rather stay up here, thank you.”

“I’m calling this off. Let’s make a treaty, right now. I started the battle, and I can end it.” Joly laughed. “I’m not sure how many more attacks our wardrobes can take, and I rather miss having you next to me in bed. And _someone_ has to help me wrestle Grantaire into a bath tonight, or he’ll go to bed like this.”

Bossuet reluctantly descended, still worried about retaliation. The only punishment he received was a very sticky Grantaire drawing both him and Joly close, kissing them both in turn.

“I’ll miss getting the better of you,” he said to Bossuet, “but I suppose I’ll accept the terms of peace.”

 

The band returned to their apartment nearly too exhausted to wash off the molasses (Bossuet regretted his choice of prank very much now that he’d borne witness to its aftermath).

“How was the meeting?” Musichetta asked, raising an eyebrow at Bossuet when the others weren’t looking.

“We’ve called it off,” he answered. “This war, I mean. We’re all far too tired to continue.”

“That’s probably wise.” An expression Bossuet couldn’t place flickered across her face.

Grantaire, clean save for a few scraps of molasses still clinging to his hair, headed for the bedroom. “I promise we’ll explain it tomorrow, dear Musichetta. Now, it’s time to sleep.”

She frowned. “I wouldn’t—”

He ignored her, pulling Joly and Bossuet to the bedroom with him. When he sprawled across the bed, Joly and Bossuet following suit, a crack sounded and the mattress seemed to shake.

It took Bossuet a moment to realize the mattress had fallen to the floor, and a few more to see Musichetta standing sheepishly in the doorway.

“I did try to warn you.”

Grantaire waved her over. “It seems we’re sleeping on the floor tonight. I’d rather have you by my side, all things considered.”

They’d finally found a comfortable position, everyone nestled into each other, when a bleat from the wardrobe made Joly sit up, knocking Bossuet’s head out of his lap.

“What on earth are we going to do with the goat?”

**Author's Note:**

> Your prompts were very fun to write for, and I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> Title from Tamburlaine the Great, by Christopher Marlowe


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